


a fiend for my fix

by kilgraves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon compliant for the most part, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Eventual Happy Ending, Heroin, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Prostitution, Sexual Content, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kilgraves/pseuds/kilgraves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no words to describe it. It's like everything just slows down before coming to a complete stop, and he can <em>breathe</em>. He can fucking breathe for the first time in what feels like years, and his whole body is tingly and light. It starts right in the center of his chest and spreads out until he's completely filled with warmth and calm. Calm, like he was freezing before stepping into a really hot bath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fiend for my fix

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been fascinated by the concept of drug addiction, ever since I was young. I think the idea of something as fundamentally simple as a drug being able to completely take hold of someone is crazy. I've always wanted to write _something_ about addiction, and I got inspiration for this a few days ago. I did a lot of research over the course of writing it, and I haven't written anything in a long time, so I'm really proud of this. I hope you all like it, too.
> 
> I can always be found [here](http://parishlydia.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.

He hadn't meant for any of it to happen, not really.

He didn't go to Lydia's annual end-of-the-year house party with the intention of trying heroin for the first time. Stiles isn't exactly careless when it comes to stuff like drugs; he's never allowed himself to do anything stronger than pot, because he's not a moron. He knows what happens to people who try hardcore shit, knows that it's a quick and slippery slope downwards. 

So when he stumbles onto a group of people watching Jackson shoot a girl up, he's at first horrified. It's wrong. It's  _dangerous_. It's deadly. He's already high from the blunt he and Scott shared on the way there, and he's going to walk away, forget what he's seen. But then Jackson sees him and grins, tells him  _this is real quality shit right here, the **best**_  - and Stiles doesn't walk away. He smirks and rolls up his sleeve, and by the time he starts to second guess anything, the needle's already breaking skin. 

It's  _incredible_.

There are no words to describe it. It's like everything just slows down before coming to a complete stop, and he can  _breathe_. He can fucking breathe for the first time in what feels like years, and his whole body is tingly and light. It starts right in the center of his chest and spreads out until he's completely filled with warmth and calm. Calm, like he was freezing before stepping into a really hot bath.

He talks to everyone that night; he can't get his mouth to work fast enough to vocalize all of the thoughts in his head. He's pretty sure he makes out with Lydia - or maybe it wasn't Lydia, he doesn't really remember - and he's so confident. He ends up passing out in the hallway outside Lydia's room, and when Scott wakes him up the next morning, he's sore all over, but he isn't thinking about that. 

All he's thinking about is how badly he wants to feel the way he felt the night before. 

So, he does it again.

Jackson gives him the number of the guy he gets all of his shit from, and soon, Stiles is in deep, deeper than he ever thought he could be into anything. He starts to feel withdrawal after he comes down from his third time shooting up, and that only makes him  ~~need~~  want it more. After the eighth time, he stops going to school, because he can't show up there high but he also sure as hell can't go without heroin for that long.

It becomes a cycle. A dizzy, euphoric, endless cycle of highs. Not that there aren't lows, too - his come downs are awful; he gets jumpy and irritable, and his hands shake, but he does everything he can to avoid it. He uses every bit of money he's ever saved up to maintain his stash. 

His dad catches on quickly, because after a couple of weeks, Stiles stops being cautious, stops caring if his dad walks in on him - which he does one night; shouting and all but fighting Stiles to try and keep the needle away from him. In the end, he tells Stiles that he has to make a choice: the life he has now or drugs. 

Stiles chooses drugs and his father kicks him out, tears burning his eyes as he listens to his son scream all manner of horrible things at him from the other side of the front door, his words slurred and thick.

He doesn't think twice about bringing Scott into this, because he can't stand the thought of how disappointed Scott would be if he knew the truth about his best friend. So, he goes from shelter to shelter, street corner to street corner - hell, he even stays with Jackson for a couple of nights at one point - he doesn't care where he is, as long as he gets his high. 

\-----

A few months later, he winds up in downtown Los Angeles, sleeping in his car and going out of his mind without any money. He's lost at least twenty pounds since he left home, and it shows. His skin is covered in track marks and scabs, and he's got huge bags under his eyes. When he looks in the mirror, he barely recognizes himself anymore.

One night while he's trying to sleep, a guy who looks to be a few years older than him taps on his window. Turns out there are men willing to pay hundreds of dollars to sleep with a virgin, which Stiles - somehow - still is. He shoots up beforehand, so he isn't jittery when he meets his very first client, in a dingy motel room with stains on the ceiling. It hurts, and the man isn't gentle, but Stiles leaves with $350, so he couldn't care less. He finally sleeps that night, curled up in the backseat of the Jeep, familiar warmth coursing through his veins. 

That becomes a pretty regular thing, because drugs in LA are twice as expensive as they were back home. Plus, he doesn't have Jackson to hook him up with dealers who won't overcharge him. His friend Blake, a fellow junkie, teaches him all the tricks of the game; where to go to find clients, how much to charge, etc. He usually gets around $150 every time he sucks guys off or lets them fuck his mouth - which is pretty damn good considering his overall lack of sexual experience - and anywhere from $200-$300 when he lets them fuck him. 

The first time Stiles is raped, he's too strung out to fight back. He knows what's happening, but his body feels too heavy for him to move, so he closes his eyes and imagines that he's somewhere else, somewhere warm and safe. He wakes up on Blake's ratty couch the next morning, and when he tries to move, every part of him aches. He shoots up to make the pain go away - it's all he _can_ do. 

\----

When Christmas rolls around, he hitches a ride back home, just to check up on everybody. He catches a glimpse of Lydia and her family taking pictures on the steps of their house; she looks happy, and it, in turn, makes him happy. He watches through the window of Scott's house, relieved to see that his dad's spending the holiday with Scott and Melissa instead of on his own. He can't watch for long, though, because his eyes start to sting with tears and he knows he'll end up doing something stupid if he doesn't leave soon.

He ends up just walking around town, growing more aware by the second that withdrawal's going to kick in if he doesn't shoot up in the next hour or so. His stash is back at Blake's house and he only has a pack of cigarettes with him at the moment, so he lights one before finding a payphone to call Blake to come get him.

It's cold, and his hands are already starting to shake with the ever-present terror of coming down from the high looming over his head. He sits down on the curb next to the phone booth, takes a drag from his cigarette, and waits. There's a group of musicians - playing instrumentals of Christmas songs - on the other side of the street, and the music they're playing is getting to him. He can feel it inside of his chest. It surges through him, providing him with a tiny sense of serenity in a time when he's nearly forgotten the meaning of such a word. 

It's been forty-five minutes since he called Blake, and there's _still_ no sign of him. His body is starting to tremble, his brain filling up with static and throbbing like he's struggling to stay afloat in a deep, deep ocean. He tries to stand up, tries to gain some control over his body as the tremors begin to take over, but he can't. He _can't_ , and the pounding in his head is so loud, drowning out the music and the bustle of cars and the world. 

The last thing he registers is the sound of someone saying his name, over and over again - before he passes out. 

\-----

When he wakes up, he doesn't know where he is at first, doesn't recognize his surroundings at all. Someone is dabbing at his forehead with a wet cloth, and it feels nice, but he's disoriented - scared, because he's expecting the worst.

"You're waking up," a male voice observes, quietly, and Stiles _knows_ that voice. "I was worried." 

His eyelids feel like they're made of lead but he opens them anyway, snorting when he finally sees who the voice belongs to. _You've got to be fucking kidding._

"Derek," Stiles mumbles, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, "Of all the people in the whole world, it just _had_ to be you." 

Derek raises an eyebrow and shrugs, "Would you rather I dumped you back out on the street?"

Stiles doesn't answer.

"I have to say I was pretty shocked when I realized it was you," Derek says, "I mean, it's been almost a year - everyone assumed something terrible had happened to you. We all thought you were-,"

"Dead?" Stiles finishes for him, bitterness making the word sound much sharper than it already is, "Well, I'm not, so you can all go fuck yourselves. I have to go." He stands up, ignoring the fact that every cell in his body is aching, and starts to make his way to the door of the loft. Before he even manages to make it five steps, however, Derek's there, blocking his path. "Let me leave." 

Derek folds his arms across his chest, "No." 

Stiles' eyes narrow, and he's getting angrier by the second, "You're really gonna do this? You think you're gonna be some kind of fucking _hero_ and save me?" 

"No," Derek says again, "But I'm not letting you leave. You can't go back out there." 

"You don't even _like_ me, dude - why are you pretending to care about what happens to me?"

Derek's face falls, and he looks down at the floor, like he's trying to figure out how to play the tough guy - a role that Stiles was always sure he had down to a science. When he speaks again, his voice is calm but strained: "I'm not pretending, Stiles. I _do_ care." 

Stiles shakes his head.

" _Fuck you_ ," he snaps, and when he tries to get past, Derek grabs him by the shoulders. Stiles fights back, anger and adrenaline coursing through his veins like fire, but Derek's much stronger than him. They struggle for a few moments - Stiles thrashing and kicking and trying desperately to get some kind of upper hand - but Derek doesn't let up, not even a little bit.

When Stiles spits in his face, Derek drags him into the bathroom, pushing him towards the mirror and forcing him to look at his own reflection for the first time in months. He's got scars all over, his face is gaunt and pallid, there are track marks everywhere - and at this point, Stiles has started to cry. He doesn't want to, but he can't help it anymore. His body goes limp against Derek's as he sinks to the floor and curls in on himself, shaking with choked, helpless sobs. Derek kneels down beside him, resting a warm, comforting hand on Stiles' shoulder as he cries for everything. His dad, Scott, his friends, his _life_ \- which wasn't perfect but was infinitely better than whatever he's got now. It would be one thing if all of those things had been taken from him, but they hadn't - it was all his doing. 

Derek's voice is starkly level when he leans down to murmur, "You're going to be okay, I promise. You're going to be alright, Stiles."

"I can't," Stiles sobs, "I can't, Derek, I  _can't_  fucking do this-," 

"You _can_ ," Derek replies, kneeling down beside him, "You can and you will." 

Stiles tries to say something back, but there's bile in his throat and he barely makes it to the toilet before he starts to retch.

 _Merry_   _fucking_ _Christmas_.

\-----

Three hours later, they're still in the bathroom. Derek's brought him a blanket, because even though he's soaked with sweat, Stiles is freezing cold. Withdrawal is taking everything out of him, and he knows this is just the beginning. He can't move without hurting, and even when he tries to lie completely still on the tiled floor, his body throbs with pain.

"Fuck," he whimpers, clinging to the fabric of Derek's shirt, "Derek,  _please_ , I just need one hit, just - just _one_ , that's all. Please-,"

"No," Derek replies, firmly, without a trace of hesitation.

It isn't mean, but Stiles could kill him in this moment. He hates him _so_  much for keeping the one thing he needs more than anything away from him. 

His voice is hoarse from all the vomiting, but he manages to groan, "I hate you. I fucking hate you, you asshole. I hate you _so much_." 

He wants the words to hurt Derek, to cut him deep, but he knows they don't, because all he does is nod and whisper, "I know you do." 

\-----

Every muscle in his body aches from exhaustion - all he wants to do is sleep, just for a few minutes, but he can't. Sometimes he thinks he _has_ fallen asleep, because he'll see things that he knows aren't really there. They're not hallucinations so much as extremely vivid flashbacks. He sees his father, disappointment in his eyes, the way he looked the night Stiles left home, left _him_. He sees Scott, trying so hard to understand why Stiles hasn't been himself lately. He sees the face of the man who raped him, clear as day, leering at him with no trace of sympathy or shame for what he's doing. He can feel everything, down to the way the guy's fingers had dug deeper into his skin with every move he made. 

He screams and screams and screams until Derek manages to pull him back to reality, letting Stiles cry into his chest when he finally snaps out of it. 

"You're stronger than this," Derek's calm voice soothes him, as he wraps Stiles up in the blanket again, "You're doing so well." 

Stiles never knew that Derek was capable of being so gentle and kind, but he appreciates it more than he can possibly put into words right now. 

\-----

He doesn't think he can take this for much longer. It's been at least two days and he's sure that he'll die from this pain - sure that he won't be able to make it out of this alive, and maybe that's what he deserves. He gave up so much, and all it's amounted to is lying on a cold, bathroom floor, moaning and shaking uncontrollably, holding on tight to the hand of someone he's not even supposed to like.

He's going to die.

He _wants_ to die - it would be better than this by a fucking long shot. 

It kind of feels like drowning, only a thousand times worse. Like he's underwater and frantically trying to come up for air. He can see sunlight, knows he can't be far from the surface, yet even as he kicks and all but drags himself through the water, he never gets any closer to it. 

Derek is there through everything. It's strange, because Stiles has never really considered Derek anything more than someone he knows. But now, knowing that Derek's with him, that he doesn't have to go through this alone - is beyond comforting. At one point, he comes back to consciousness and finds that Derek isn't beside him anymore, and his chest tightens until he's crying again, because he should have known it wouldn't last. Derek doesn't really care about him. He's alone.

When Derek comes back into the bathroom a few minutes later, Stiles feels an overwhelming surge of relief, stretching out his arms in a silent plea. Derek understands, moving to sit down next to Stiles and pulling him into his lap, wrapping strong arms around him tightly. Stiles buries his face in Derek's chest, whispering things about how he didn't think Derek would come back, how he's so glad that he did. 

Derek's voice is soft when he says, "I'm right here, Stiles. I'm not going anywhere." 

\-----

"I chose this," Stiles says, the next day. It's light outside, sometime around noon, and he's so worn out. Every time he thinks he's gotten through the worst of it, something will happen to knock him right back down again. He's pretty sure the puking is over with, though - at least, he hopes so, because he's wearing one of Derek's shirts now and he doesn't want to ruin it by getting sick all over himself again. His head is resting on Derek's shoulder, and his brain feels somewhat clear for the first time in hours. "All the terrible shit that's happened is no one's fault but mine. My dad told me to choose, and I chose drugs. I'm not even sure I realized what I was doing... I was so far gone that nothing else mattered. As long as I had heroin, everything was okay."  

Derek nods, stroking his back gently, "The last time I cared about something that much, I ended up losing my entire family. But you have a real chance to turn things around. I know it doesn't seem like it, but you do." 

Stiles shivers, mumbling, "I don't know how it got to this place. It's like I blinked and everything was fucked up beyond repair." 

"Well, think of it this way: you've gone nearly a full forty-eight hours without heroin," Derek murmurs, "So, just keep going. Don't worry about anything other than getting through the withdrawal." 

Stiles doesn't say anything - instead, he scoots even closer to Derek, nuzzling his nose against his neck. He feels Derek's arms tighten around him, and it makes him smile. 

\-----

By the end of the night, they've relocated to Derek's bed, because Stiles hasn't thrown up in hours and they're both sick of the bathroom.

Derek helped him shower a few hours ago, standing on the other side of the curtain in case Stiles needed anything. It felt amazing to be clean again - he isn't sure how long it's been since he last bathed, but he was definitely in dire need of it. Brushing his teeth had been pretty goddamn great, too. 

Stiles is still wearing Derek's shirt - which is almost comically big on him, considering how much weight he's lost in the last year - and they're under the covers, his cheek resting on Derek's chest. This should probably feel weird, because they were virtually strangers to one another a few days ago, but it doesn't - not at all. 

"Why are you doing all of this for me?" Stiles asks, quietly, sitting up to meet Derek's gaze. "I mean, I'm ninety-nine percent sure I've thrown up on you at least once in the last three days."

Derek laughs, "You definitely have - more than once, I should add - but it's okay. And as for why I'm doing this, I couldn't just leave you out on the street. I barely recognized you at first, but once I did... you looked awful, Stiles - so skinny and dirty and  _sad_ and all I wanted to do was help."

"Are you sure it wasn't just the Christmas spirit in you?" Stiles waggles his eyebrows jokingly, "Maybe it's like _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_. Did your heart grow two sizes because you helped me?" 

Derek feigns amusement, rolling his eyes, "Even after a year of addiction, you're still the same little shit you always were." 

"And don't you forget it," Stiles says, taking immense pleasure in the way Derek grins at him. 

\-----

He has a nightmare during the fourth night - more of the same things he's seen before resurface in the dream, only ten times more vivid. He's cold and scared and above all else, he's completely alone. The last thing he sees is his dad crying, head in his hands, before he wakes up, gasping and drenched in sweat. He reaches blindly for Derek in the dark, and when he finds him, his breathing immediately starts to calm. Derek's arms engulf him and everything is okay, just like that. 

" _Derek_ ," he moans, because it's not enough, "Derek, please, I need-," 

Derek doesn't let him finish - doesn't need to, because he understands. He cups his face in his hands and leans in close to press his lips to Stiles', gently at first - like he's worried he might break - and then deeper and deeper until Stiles is clinging to him, trying to catch his breath in between each kiss. For the first time in forever, he's not shaking because of drugs, or withdrawal, or even cold - he's shaking with want, with burning, desperate need for Derek. 

It all feels so simple. He's had sex before - if he can even call getting fucked for money in motel rooms and the backseats of cars 'sex' - but this is different. No one has ever taken their time with him, or treated him like he was more than an object. Derek goes slow, holding him close and kissing every inch of pale, freckled skin he can reach. 

When Derek peels the long-sleeved shirt off of him, Stiles tenses, stammering, "My arms - they're, um - I - I don't-," He's suddenly very conscious of his track marks - a feature that he'd almost forgotten about up until now - but Derek's quick to set him at ease, kissing his scars, his bruises, the things he's most ashamed of on his body.

It makes Stiles feel something he hasn't felt in a very long time: safe. 

Time passes by in a blur of hands and lips and skin after that. It's all Stiles can do to keep himself from shaking when Derek finally slides his cock inside, slow and hot and so _good_ , he thinks he might explode. He's never felt as close to someone as he does when Derek locks their fingers together, lips brushing against the hollow at the base of Stiles' throat as he starts up a rhythm. By the time he feels his orgasm building, there are tears spilling out of the corners of his eyes, and when Derek whispers for him to let go, he chokes on a sob and falls over the edge, knowing that Derek's got him. 

After, when they're wrapped up in each other under the sheets, Stiles murmurs, "If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh?" Derek's eyebrows furrow, but he nods, and Stiles takes a deep breath, "I think I'm kind of in love with you...?" 

Derek doesn't laugh, but he does smile, before replying, "Well, that's a relief, because I'm kind of in love with you, too." 

Stiles feels like he might overflow with happiness.

\-----

The next week is spent setting him up with the things he needs to continue his recovery; Derek finds a support group for him to go to, as well as a doctor, and talks to the school principal about summer classes to make up for everything he missed when he left. 

Stiles goes to see Scott first, because he's more nervous about seeing his dad again than he is about seeing his best friend. When Melissa opens the door, she doesn't say anything - just pulls him in for a hug, whispering how glad she is that he's okay. Scott reacts in much the same way, hugging Stiles tight - and it brings him such a sense of peace, to know that his best friend never stopped being his best friend, not really.

Stiles nearly has a panic attack after knocking on the front door of his house, and when his dad opens it, he holds his breath, not knowing quite what to say. 

The sheriff's eyes widen when he realizes who it is, and his voice is shaky when he whispers, "I thought you were... but you're alive. You're okay?" 

Stiles smiles anxiously and nods, "I'm okay, dad." There's a moment of silence, in which his father's eyes brim with tears, before Stiles finally builds up the courage to say, "I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry, for... everything." 

The sheriff just shakes his head, reaching out to pull Stiles into a hug. "It doesn't matter anymore, Stiles - none of it matters as long as you're home safe." 

He starts to cry then, along with his dad, because it's going to be alright. For the first time in months, he's sure of it. 

 _He's_ going to be alright. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is my absolute favorite thing, so be sure to leave me some (◡‿◡✿)


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